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Saturday, 27 August 2016

Gian Andrea was once born Italian, before he
moved to the United Kingdom. Writer, painter, he holds a Bachelor degree
in Literature and History with honours, and a Master degree in Philosophy with
honours.

Wanderer and passionate about languages and
cultures, he often travels across Europe, visiting their major cities and their
artistic heritage.

Back to the time when he was better known for his physique, rather
than his brain, Gian was a kid that grew up in a small town of central Italy,
lying next to a lazy lake.
Spending most of his time alone, drawing, painting or reading anything that had
some words printed on it, his family got quite concerned that the kid would
became a skinny outcast.
So they pushed him to play some kind of sport.
Jumping from one sport to another, he first got interested on Swimming.
(But the lake was too dirty, -he said, and the pool too small).
So he became really keen on Athletics, Running, mostly (but after a while, he
realized that he had been running for hours every day, without actually going
anywhere).
Next, he started playing Basketball (but hey, we're in Italy, -he said, here
everybody's supposed to like Football; and I'm not even that tall, after all,
-he said).
Feeling like he had yet to find the right sport that'd suit him well, he began
practising Karate.
(That will do, -he said! but when he realized he could not beat people up for
real, once again, he decided to quit).
In the meantime, he joined the gym, and that seemed to be fine for a while.
He had the perfect excuse to:
-eating seven times a day like a pig,
-going around with extra-extra-large clothes although he wasn't a rapper,
-working out in a place full of pretty girls.
Eventually, in his early twenties, he was sure he'd became somehow a pro in
that industry.
(Hell yeah, I'm big! I'm strong! -he said. Then, during a preparation for a
powerlifting competition, he got injured, and he had to quit again).
In the meantime, University got started, and right after the first couple of
classes of Philosophy and Literature, his mind was finally clear.
(Why would I even work out in the first place? -he said).

The rest as they say, is a work in progress.

Excerpt from the interview

WHY DID YOU DECIDE TO START WRITING?

As a passionate reader first, and
philosopher as well, I always found writing an excellent way to investigate the
world around you and the human nature, as well as your own.

There's nothing quite like writing, putting
your thoughts on paper, to help you trying to figure out the meaning of this
existence, or at least, to live it properly.

I believe it's a sort of necessity, - as
writing, like painting and any other form of art -deeply affects our life and daily choices,
more than we may suspect.

Most of my favourites books, can be read as
a work of physiology, digging inside our mind, - cause after all, writing is
passing a life's lesson.

WHAT'S YOUR WRITING PROCESS?

Truth be told I don't quite have a
writing-schedule, nor a specific method, mostly because of work reason.

But also because I don't think I entirely
fit inside the plotter category: for instance, my first novel took me years of
work, and by the time it was finished - it was something utterly different from
what initially meant to be.

I generally have a blurred idea of what I'm
going to write, usually let it settle for a while, and then I begin to put it
on paper whenever I feel like.

At this stage, I might already have changed
my mind about how the story is going to proceede, which particular direction
it's going to take - but that's all part of the game!

It worked out well for my second,
semi-biographical, work - that started as a fiction book and ended up to be a
sort of memoir.

Reading and re-reading over and over, I also
think it's primarily important.

I often leave the book's draft over the desk
for while, days or weeks before re-reading it, - and do this until I think it's
ready to be read by someone else.

I write everything down on my laptop - but
when it comes to editing, I need to have those words printed off on real paper,
in order to make any necessary adjustment by pen. Then, type it again on my
laptop - and so on and so forth till you're satisfied with what you get.

HOW DO YOU INTERACT WITH YOUR CHARACTERS?

Even at the cost of sounding cliche, I
simply put myself on their shoes.

I mean, what else can you do? Whether you're
writing in first person (which I personally often use), you're mostly likely
writing about characters based or inspired by people that you know, or that you
made research on.

Even
when you write the most fictional character, you have got to someone/something
in mind, - where everything get a start, let's say,-it's the way imagination works.

So, simply, try to think what they would
say, how they would act, and let them be themselves.

To answer even more precisely, I don't talk
or listen to them, I just observe them in my mind - as they're alive, right in
front of me.

WHATSUGGESTION WOULD YOU GIVE TO OTHERS WRITER?

The one I take for myself: write about what
you know, what it truly matters for you, and write it simple and clear and
don't spare anything.

There is no such a thing as a good subject
or a bad subject for a book:

if you manage to convey your passion, as
well as your message, it's half of the job done.

HOW DID YOU GET PUBLISHED?

I always knew what I wanted to do, I just
had to decide how.

So, - after avoiding vanity publishers - I
tried both way, collaborated with a couple of editors and publishers - and
eventually had better results with self-publishing (even in terms of sales.)

Though I think it may be, just because I
haven't found a good one, yet.

But I did like the idea of being in control
of every single aspect, from marketing, cover design, title to lines spacing,
layout and any little details.

It was time consuming, and I was working
frenetically around my laptop pretty much all day long - but the feeling I had
when I published the first edition of my first novel was just incredible!

The worst part though is, - you're in
control of literally everything:

which means at a certain point you'll have
to relay on someone else to help you out: a good graphic designer, editor, promoter
etc.

Saturday, 20 August 2016

Chuck Bowie is the welcome guest this week for the 4Q
Interview on the Scribbler. This is Chuck’s third visit. Previously he shared
excerpts from his international thriller novels featuring the dashing and
clever sleuth Sean Donovan. Chuck lives in Fredericton, New Brunswick with his
wife Lois. His love for music, fine wines and delicious food are passions he
brings to his novels. Terrific plots, great dialogue and plain good
storytelling will keep you turning the pages of his books. If you missed his
previous visit, please go here.

4Q:Thanks for taking
the time to share your thoughts Chuck. Was becoming an author something you
dreamed about when you were younger or did it just happen one day?

CB:I’ve always considered myself a writer, and began
writing to entertain others when I was in grade school. After several years of
selling tourism articles, short stories and then essays as a young adult, I
tried to write a romance novel. I was about eighty pages in when I discovered I
didn’t really have the heart—no pun intended—to write in that particular genre.
I then wrote a wonderful (to me!) speculative fiction manuscript about the
near-future. I’ll re-write it, one day, as the idea still ‘has legs’, as they
say in the movie business.

4Q:We all know that Sean Donovan is the central figure in
your thriller series. How did he materialize? Did he come first or did the
story come first?

CB:Donovan magically appeared to me one night while I was
sleeping, but in fact, it was the story that came first. I was in Romania on
business and the concept of a thief for hire came to me. The notion of a
fellow—and a Canadian guy at that—with the skill set to separate people from
their possessions, was an interesting idea. An incident at that time caused me
to develop a character I’d dreamed of; a guy who wasn’t too big, wasn’t too
young or old, and who carried around his own version of right and wrong. I put
the character with the plot and the first novel began to write itself. He’s a
complex guy, so I still find him interesting in the fourth novel.

4Q:Please share a childhood anecdote or memory.

CB:As a teenager in a small New Brunswick hamlet, I was a
bit of a loner. One fall afternoon just before dusk I went hunting for
partridge. I headed across a long field where the farmer had missed the second
cut of hay, and was quite a ways from home when I noticed my cat had been
following me through the tall, yellow grass. So I let him come along.

I sought out an opening in the forest and followed a road
that had grown over, until I came to an ancient house that had caved in upon
itself. I was almost there when I spied a ruffed grouse in the apple tree
growing beside the ruin. I dropped it with one shot from my .22, but it took
flight. It had got four feet from the ground when I saw a grey flash leap into
the air, taking it down. Then I had to have a chat with my cat to determine
whose, exactly, it was. But my mom was waiting for supper meat, so I asserted
myself and we brought it home to eat. My cat never forgave me for that.

4Q:Now tell us about your latest work. What is Donovan up
to?

CB:My third novel in the series is called Steal It All, so you can perhaps guess
what happens. It occurs to me that readers can often guess who my bad guy is,
long before the climax, but I pride myself on pleasing the reader with all
kinds of hooks, tricks and twists as the book pulls the narrative arcs
together.

Steal It All takes
place for the most part in the rougher neighbourhoods of Manchester, England,
although there are scenes in Niagara, New York City, London, Bucharest,
Constanta and The Lake District. So I indulge in my usual jet-setting travels!
The book opens with a murder in the Canadian Embassy in London, and from there
we follow a thief, an RCMP detective and a Scotland Yard inspector as they try
to solve a murder. But things get complicated, and Donovan is a tough fellow to
keep focused. There are many twists and turns, and we come to care deeply what
happens to each of the characters in the book. I think the ending is a
barn-burner! I hope the reader will as well.

Steal It All is
available now as an eBook. It will be available in paperback early this fall.
You can order it, as well as Three Wrongs and AMACAT, from Chapters-Indigo,
Amazon, and from my publisher: MuseItUp Publications.

Saturday, 13 August 2016

Historical fiction has always appealed to me when looking for a new book to read. I think that Bryce Courtenay does it the best as well as James Michener or Edward Rutherford, all great story tellers. These terrific authors are an inspiration and I hope to emulate their style of writing.

The main character in my first two novels is Drake Alexander. He lives in New Brunswick Canada and his grandfather on the Alexander side comes from the United Kingdom. His grandmother is an Acadian from a small village on the east coast of Canada.My third novel tells the story of the Alexander family, beginning in 1911 in Govan, Scotland and spanning the next 24 years. It is an unedited work-in-progress. I would like to share the beginning and get some feedback. Any comments would be appreciated.

1

AutumnGovan,
Scotland.

Lucretia
Alexander is about abandon her middle child, Dominic.Where she is going, she cannot bring him. She
is poised on the wide front stoop of her brother-in-law’s house, draped in
sorrow. Her father waits in the cairt which
he has pulled to the side of the street. Her hand is raised to rap on the faded
wooden door but she lingers. Looking at her eleven year old son Dominic, at her
side, almost as tall as her, she sees the uncertainty in his eyes. Like her
heart, her will is almost broken. She yearns to hold him, to cling to him, to
carry him away from the sadness they both feel.Biting her lower lip, the need for
him to survive strengthens her resolve. She knocks firmly upon the door.

The
sun is setting over the roofs along the street, detail is lost to silhouettes. A
cool breeze whispers around the corners, it carries the scent of iron and oil
from the shipyards Govan is famous for. The two horses pulling the cairt prance,
unfamiliar with city sounds and the odd automobile on Govan Road where they
turned on to Waterville Row. The street dead ends a short distance from River
Clyde. The river is deep and hosts an
abundance of shipyards. It separates the municipality from its bigger brother
Glasgow. Ibrox is to the east and the borough of Renfrew is to the west.

Robert
Alexander, Duff to his buddies, is leaning one-handed against the back of the
house, staring bleary eyed at the vomit on his new shoes, Florsheims that he paid 2
pounds sterling for yesterday. He has to work a whole day for these. The
pansies at his feet are covered with the frothy remains of a once damn-tasty
haggis. It failed the taste test miserably coming back up.

He
wobbles but stiffens when he hears a rapping at the front door. Straightening
up he guesses its Jacky Boy and Tubs, come to see if he has anything to drink.
Pulling a wrinkled, stained hanky from left front pocket of his trousers, he
swipes the spittle from his bearded chin, flips the fabric over and honks his
nose. He bellows with a raspy slurry voice.

“Hold
yur peckers you dumb lads. I’ll be along in a shake.”

Lucretia
stops rapping, a frown scrunches up her narrow face. Placing a hand on her hip
she turns to Dominic.

“The
bugger is drunk.”

Dominic
is snickering, he only heard “pecker”. His brother Tommy told him what a pecker
is last summer. Tommy didn’t know why
they call it that but is certain his big brother wouldn’t tell him a fib.Lucretia pokes her son on the shoulder with
her free arm.

“Behave!
“

Tugging
on the fabric of his coarse shirt, she starts towards the walkway.

“Come
along, I think we should forget this and…”

Her
directive is interrupted by Duff staggering along the dirt driveway, coming
from behind the house. He’s trying to tuck his loose shirt in but can’t get the
edge around his ridiculously red suspenders. He stops two tentative steps
towards the front walk of fieldstone sunken in the neatly clipped lawn.
Forgetting the shirt he closes one eye to focus on the two bodies on his stoop.
They’re about twenty-five feet away. Expecting a rotund Jacky Boy and taller
Tubs he is surprised when the image clears. The porch is in shadow with the sun
behind the houses across the street. He only sees the outlines. Both
are thin, one is wearing a dress. The other is a step or two behind the dress.
The dress has one hand on a hip. Why does he feel like he’s going to be
scolded?

“Robert
Alexander! You should be ashamed of yourself. I know you’re a man of an odd
drink, but as long as I’ve been related to you, I’ve never seen you this drunk.
Look at you. You can hardly stand up.”

Duff
perks up, the lilt of his favorite sister-in–law is warmly recognized. He opens
his eye, spreads his burly arms open.

“Lucretia,
my dear, did you finally leave that no good brother of mine. Duff is here to
rescue you…”

Motioning
for Dominic to remain, Lucretia walks down the two steps to the walkway watching
Duff shuffle along the flat stones. When he is halfway he stumbles on the edge
of a larger stone that frost has lifted and yet to be fixed. The unbalance
causes his arms to cartwheel, like one of those lawn ornaments of a man in a
boat.His forward drunken momentum,
powered by enthusiasm propels him, head down, directly at Lucretia’s feet. His
temple and right ear are the first to connect with the stone in front of her. He
is unconscious upon impact. The thud of his bulky body causes the horses to
stir. Old man Watson, tugs on their reins and whistles a melancholy tune he
made up for them. The familiar trill calms the pair. Lucretia, steps back one
pace in shock, both hands on her face and exclaims with a high, alarmed voice.

“Oh
goodness, he can’t be dead too?”

2

Lucretia
bends over the inert form of her brother-in-law that is lying on his side, arms
outstretched. She gently pushes him onto his back and places a hand on his
chest.Finding the even rise and fall of
his lungs she sighs. Looking up at her son, she points at the front door.

“Check
and see if it’s open.”

Dominic
turns to twist the knob and the door swings inward on silent hinges.

“Aye,
‘tis.”

“Get
yourself down here then and give me a hand with this sorry sight.”

Dominic
joins his mother on the pathway and when he slides his hands under the
shoulders of his uncle’s supine form, Duff stirs and bats his hands away.
Momentarily disoriented Duff sits up rubbing his scalp where flesh met stone.
Lucretia backs off a little and Dominic stands beside her facing the stunned
man, their backs to the house. A welt
grows on his forehead. His hand comes away with a drop of blood on the index
finger.

“Damn,
me head hurts. What did you hit me with Lucretia?”

Clasping
her hands in front of her, chin up as if insulted, she regards him with distaste.

“I
didn’t do a thing you silly fool. You slipped on that cobblestone and landed on
your face. You scared the life from me man. Can you get up?”

Eyeing
the boy in front of him he scratches his head.

“Who’s
this lad? Can that be wee Dom?”

“He’s
not wee anymore Duff. Now c’mon, let’s get you into the house and I’ll tend to
that scratch on your head.”

Waving
to Dominic, the two get their hands under Duff’s arms and wrestle him to his
feet.He wobbles like an infant that’s
just learned to stand up. Dom holds him under one arm, a smirk on his face,
knowing better than to laugh. Straightening out his loose shirt, Lucretia helps
him tuck the errant edges in when she catches a whiff of Duff’s liquor laden
breath. She scrunches her nose. Turning him towards the front door she comments on it.

“You’ll
be wanting to gargle with something sweet and I’ll be getting some tea in ya.”

The
two steps up to the porch and entering the house requires Duff’s full
attention. Shrugging off his assistants, he uses the wall of the hallway that
leads to the kitchen in back.

“Why
would I be needing tea? S’better to have another tot of that whiskey inside.”

Following
him closely, she urges Dominic along with a wave to get behind his uncle in
case he loses his balance. Pausing while her middle child, the quietest and
most obedient of her seven children, helps the man into a two armed wooden
chair at the table, she dreads what she must do. Trying not to cry, she clears
her throat.

“You’ll
want to be sober when you hear what I have to ask you?”

Thank you for dropping by the Scribbler today. As I mentioned above, any comments would be welcome.Next week, we are happy to have returning author Chuck Bowie of Fredericton, New Brunswick for the 4Q Interview. A world traveller, an interesting gentleman and a talented author.

Saturday, 6 August 2016

MarciaCristinaMartinsWeberwas born
inPetropolis, Brazilin 1964.
She graduated inphysiotherapybyCatholicUniversityofPetropolis. In 1983 participated in theAnthology"Our PoetsII"
with the poem"If I
could" and in 1986 in the anthology"Brazilian Poets"with the poem “On any given day.” In 2005
she movedto Germanyand wroteher first novel, "Perfect Match". Her links are listed below.

Following is an excerpt from her novel.

Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission

Chapter 7

Mary regained consciousness and opened her eyes, but
the blindfold kept her in the dark. Her parched mouth made impossible to
swallow and the gag hurt the side of her mouth. Every muscle of her body
protesting from being in the same position for a long time, she moved to a more
comfortable position, which proved to be difficult, with her hands tied behind
her back and her ankles tied together.

Dizziness clouded her mind. She didn’t remember what
had happened to her. Her heart started beating fast and loud against her ribs
and her breath became irregular.

Mary
Walker, you are in big trouble but it isn’t time to panic! Breathe, Mary, deep
and slowly, she ordered herself. Again, breathe.

She took several long and deep breaths, in an attempt
to calm down her heart. She was quite sure that if it continued to pound in
that crazy rhythm it would break her ribs. It slowed down and she concentrated
on the recent events. Where I was and
what happened? A noise startled her and her heart started to gallop again.
She listened carefully in an effort to identify it. A door was open. She would
say it was very close to her, and heavy footsteps came in her direction. Her
body stiffened and cold sweat rolled down her face.

She shivered as strong hands grabbed her arm to help
her sit, and took off the gag. He, she supposed it was a man, gave her water.
The cold liquid was a relief for her dry mouth. The relief didn’t last long,
the gag covered her mouth again and she was left alone in the darkness.

Bit by bit she put together what she had done the day
or hours before, she didn’t know.

I
was at the library. I was late but have to stop to buy dinner. Yes, a man asked
for directions and the other man had a gun. And then it went dark. Questions started to pop up. How long I was unconscious? Where am I? And she realized that
whoever had done it might know that she hated to be in the dark, that not
having anything to do was enough to drive her crazy.

She supposed it was hours later, she heard the door
open and footsteps coming in her direction again. It wasn’t the same person,
this one had light footsteps. It was incredible how sharp she could hear with
her vision blocked.

He took off the gag and the blindfold, and the rope
from around her wrists and ankles. The room was poorly lit; the light came from
a single lamp dropping from the ceiling. Still Mary blinked several times for
her eyes to get used to it.

She slowly flexed her muscles. Every inch of her body
ached. He let her go to the toilet and gave her something to eat and to drink.
Her annoyance increased.

If
he uses a hood to hide his face why do I have to be blindfolded all the
time?she thought. She didn’t dare
to ask anything, his hoarse voice and aggressive tone told her not to. She did
what she was told. While she ate, she looked at where she was. It
was a small room, with one window painted black not letting the day light in.
She couldn’t know if it was day or night. The place had
seen better days. It was dirty; a dick layer of dust covered the floor and the
walls, except one that was made of wood and was new. The place was stuffy and
smelled moldy. Mary felt bad, the smell was nauseating and the tiny room was
claustrophobic.

There
were two doors, one that led to the lavatory and one that meant her freedom.
She stared at them.You don’t have
any chance to escape from here even if you weren’t tied up, she concluded
sadly.

This
ritual was repeated three times a day by two different men. The rest of the
time she was alone with her thoughts. She forced herself to believe that soon
she would be out of the dark and claustrophobic room. To keep her strength she
had to believe that soon she would be with her family again. Sometimes the fear
and the agony were stronger and negative thoughts assaulted her mind, but she
made herself ban them away. She forced herself to eat although she wasn’t
hungry and the food’s taste was dubious. She needed to keep strong.

She had lost track of the time completely, but she
supposed it was the third day she was there. The man with the hoarse voice came
with a telephone and a sheet of paper. He dialed a number and waited. Mary
was sure that he had called her family. Her pulse went crazy; a mix of emotions
invaded her heart. Determined to make her family believe that despite
everything she was alright, she held back tears. After a few rings someone
answered. The man held the sheet of paper in front of her and ordered her to
say exactly what was written, not a word more.

It was enough to hear
Mark’s voice for her fragile control to slip. Tears streamed down her face
blinding her.

“Read,” he demanded
impatiently.

She brushed the tears
with the back of her hand and looked at the words. But the words that came out
of her mouth were not the words that were written. Furious, the man
slapped her face twice.

Mark heard her low cry and his pulse began to pulse
erratically.

“Mary, what is going on? Are you hurt?” Mark shouted
desperately.

After three long days of agony and uncertainty it was
a relief for Mark, for George and for her parents, to hear Mary’s voice. She
was shaken but alive. But her low cry and the abrupt end of the call brought
the fear back and gnawed at their confidence. What had happened to her? The
question hung in the air. Afraid to say out loud what they feared, they
preferred to keep their thoughts and worries to themselves.No one wanted to talk about Mary.

He came in and watched her in her sleep for a while.
He kneeled beside her and pulled her to a sitting position. She woke up
frightened and didn’t scream because she was gagged.

Amused by her scared face, he brushed his fingertips
over her face and smoothed her disheveled hair, straightening it a little.
A jolt of panic ran through Mary. She turned her head from side to side
in an attempt to avoid the hand that was touching her. He put one hand behind
her neck, immobilizing her. Immediately her stomach tightened anticipating the
outcome. He kissed her cheek, and with his free hand pulled the
gag and kissed her lips gently.

I
know this scent, this way to kiss and touch. It’s the way it

used to be. No,
please God, don’t let be him,
she begged in

silence as recognition and shock raced through her. She

would like to forget every minute she had spent with him, but

the memories were
there, the good and the bad ones.

Thank you Marcia for sharing a portion of your exciting novel. I definitely want to read more.

Find out more about Marcia and her writing by visiting the links below.

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SHORTS Vol.1

The Ship Breakers - Breaking gigantic ships by hand is dangerous and gruelling work. Many workers are children. The wages are low. ( This story received Honorable Mention in the WFNB's short story competition) Lloyd and the Baby - A bachelor finds an abandoned baby. What does he do with it? The Shattered Figurine - Detective Josephine (Jo) Naylor is told where to find the next body with a plea to help the killer stop this madness. The Two Grumpy Old Man Cafe - The meals are delicious, the atmosphere perfect and the insults are free. Available at Amazon. Please CLICK on the book cover.

SHORTS Vol.2

Five engaging short stories that will keep you wanting more by this author. *Four Boxes of Memories – Lloyd Minister moves to a nursing home with his most important possessions and he can’t take everything with him. *Reaching the Pinnacle - Grandfather and granddaughter hike the highest mountain in their province. Around the campfire, the young lady has something important to tell her Gramps. *Pioneers in a Hurry - A fond recollection of three grown men acting like boys on an all-night camping trip. Being mischievous comes naturally. *Near Dead - Detective Jo Naylor finds herself in the dark. She’s not alone. Someone wants her dead. *Six Jutlands and a Conestoga - The Verhoeven family have everything they own in a wagon, children and all. The mysterious west beckons. Available at Amazon. Please click on the book cover.

SHORTS Vol.3

Letting Go - a son deals with his deceased father's "boxes of memories". One Bedroom Ark - Noah Coyne owns a convenience story, the last customer of the night will change his life. Two Boys, One Wagon and a Secret - In the 50's, a young boy's pride was a red wagon. What do they discover one day when they are out filling it up with returnables? No Dying Today - Det. Jo Naylor and her partner search for the man that tried to kill her last night. The Food Bank - some people have too much food, others not enough.Available at Amazon. Please CLICK on the book cover.

Blooger's Award.

Thank you Susan Toy.

Family and Friends.

Nieces Pam Cottrell and Jackie Beers

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What's New?

Please check out the new Detective Jo Naylor serialization on the Page bar above. New additions coming soon. Follow the story here on the Scribbler.

Paperback copies of Dark Side of a Promise are available at Chapters - Regent Mall, Fredericton, NB. Cover to Cover in Riverview, NB. And from the Author.

Allan Hudson

About Me

My mother taught me to read, to like books, when I was very young. She also taught me how to write. I grew up in the country, even went to a one-room school which was right across the road from our house. She was the teacher. The days I missed were few. I enjoy reading and some of my favorite authors are Bryce Courtenay, Beth Powning, Dennis LeHane, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Cara Brookins, Susan Toy, Jason Lawson, Lockie Young, Chuck Bowie, Harlan Coben, Leon Uris and Herman Wouk.Writing is so much fun and even though I started later in life, I am so happy to realize my dream. Having this blog so I can share other people's work gives me great pleasure.

I've had many adventures in my life. I've travelled throughout North America, gone skydiving, rock climbing, wilderness camping. I craft stained glass and I enjoy woodworking. I'm blessed with many good friends. I live in the seaside community of Cocagne, New Brunswick, Canada. My wife's name is Gloria. My son's name is Adam and my stepsons' names are Christopher (Mireille) and Mark (Nathalie) Young. My grandchildren are Matthieu, Natasha and Damien. I love them all.Thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoy my blog. You can reach me by leaving a comment and/or your email address below and I'll respond.

A new Drake Alexander novel

Coming soon...

The Douglas Kyle Memorial Award for Fiction

My story - The Ship Breakers - received Honorable Mention in the Douglas Kyle Memorial awards for New Brunswick Writers Federation's short story category. It's featured in SHORTS Vol.1

The Dark Side of a Promise

Dark Side of a Promise is an edgy, international thriller. A tale of Revenge! Drake Alexander follows the trail of one of the world’s deadliest men which leads him to the unlikeliest locations – Bangladesh, the country of rivers. Bartolo Rizzato murdered his best friend’s sister. Why is he in Asia? It can only be to steal or kill! When Alexander finds him, will he deliver on his promise? (Go to comment box in Novel section above to see what one reader says about the novel) Only $4.99 from Amazon. Please CLICK on the book cover.